


To The Shore

by Siera_Writes



Series: Of living things, my son, some are made friends with fire [3]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Diviner!Ross, Fae manipulation, M/M, Magic, Multi, Pining, Self-Loathing, Urban Magic Yogs, demon!trott, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a fine mist of rain, typical for these streets, and Smith's chilled further. He might never be warm again. His muscles tremble, even the muscles of his abdomen, and he can barely hold himself to Ross, who supports him. They're stumbling, like they're drunk.</p><p>Ross is exhausted from his spells, of maintaining them beyond and between dimensions, and his features are contorted into a grimace as he tows Smith along. People veer around them, eyes blind, skipping over their hunched forms. Even now, Ross is protecting him; even as it hurts him further, he cares too much about Smith to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. oh when your nine day feed is up, and you've drained your loving cup

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I find myself having inspiration for this series when I'm in England. It's strange. I'm using up way too much of my feeble mobile data, but ah well. It's for a good cause.
> 
> If you want to follow me on tumblr, my url is siera-writes.
> 
> To The Shore is yet another song by Duram Duran - creepy, strange, with disconcerting lyrics. It's perfect. I had a one-shot I was writing, Ross' backstory, but it felt like something else needed to come before that. A little more investment. And thus, this fic was written. Enjoy.

He's so cold. It seems to be worsening. He wishes Trott was still embracing him, burning him; he'd feel something other than the chasm in his chest. It's like something's been wrenched from him. His heart? Wouldn't surprise him.

And fuck, Trott. The lights around him swim, glimmer, shift, distort, all in wild motions, and it's tears, tears in his eyes that fall fresh to his cheeks and leave a sticky trail where he doesn't lift his hand to dash them away.

There's a fine mist of rain, typical for these streets, and Smith's chilled further. He might never be warm again. His muscles tremble, even the muscles of his abdomen, and he can barely hold himself to Ross, who supports him. They're stumbling, like they're drunk.

Ross is exhausted from his spells, of maintaining them beyond and between dimensions, and his features are contorted into a grimace as he tows Smith along. People veer around them, eyes blind, skipping over their hunched forms. Even now, Ross is protecting him; even as it hurts him further, he cares too much about Smith to care.

He doesn't fucking deserve this. Oh the pain - yes the pain, he deserves that so fucking much, it's only right - but another person near-carrying him to help him home. It shouldn't be his. He caused Trott to sacrifice himself, die in the worst way afforded to a person consisting of fire. And why was he there? He touched the Ley Line. Like a stupid bastard, he touched that Ley Line.

And now Ross is wasting his goodness on Smith. Fuck.

His legs aren't responding. Limbs too cold, boots scuffing against cracked paving stones, kerbs, sending loose stones skittering from his path. He can barely hold himself up by the arm hooked around Ross' neck - tight, too tight, he must be half-choking him in his effort to stay upright - and yet Ross doesn't shake him off or throw him to the drizzle-damp ground like he deserves. Just pauses, breathes harsh through gritted teeth, lungs hitching spasmodically through exertion, and pulls Smith closer (closer than he deserves), a strong arm locking around his waist and pulling him taller again.

It's a breathless shamble forwards, Ross fighting the sensibilities of his body and spirit which are nigh broken, instead drawing from his misguided love for Smith. The taller man aches. Even with the cold overtaking him, making him shiver, he still feels despair at how he's got Ross wrapped around his little finger. He never intended this. Not ever. And yet, of course, he's played with their feelings. Trott's died for him and Ross surely has yet to. He's still crying, strangely catatonic, locked in misery. He spent an eternity in that place and it's sapped him his humanity.

He isn't feeling what he should be. It's just fear and self-loathing. None of the muted optimism he still possessed before today. Ross is shaking. Smith is too. His right wrist burns cold in splintering pain with every heartbeat, counting out an arhythmic measure to their unsteady lurching forth.

They turn a corner, and they're nearly there, nearly there yet so far. The rain's a ragged sheet now, drenching and mingling with their tears until one is the other, inseparable, miscible. Maybe rain can be tears for some. Maybe God? Many gods? Some fae, probably. Smith's mind whirls while his ineptitude continues. He should feel humility but instead he feels empty. 

All of a sudden, they're at the door, Ross scrabbling desperately with his key for the lock, not even thinking once to put Smith down, release him. He's too good. Smith's temples are tight, his jaw clenched. A headache scratches at his skull. The door gapes inwards with a shrill creak, and they stumble inwards, a desperate rush to the sofa. Smith is placed gently, far too gently, by Ross, and he sits there while the other man rushes to close and lock the door, claw off his shoes, his damp clothes, and find new ones for them both, even in his state of exhaustion.

Smith stares at shadows, willing them to resolve into the arch brunet, an eyebrow playfully cocked, head tilted, arms crossed while he quips something-or-other, but there's only flat planes of darkness. 

Smith should have died. Not Trott.

In the relative silence while the dark haired man races to collect things, boils water for drinks, Smith hears water drip from his clothing, maddening, ordered, regular. It's more discomfort he feels from his clothes, beyond the cold. They're slick to his clammy skin, an unwelcome reminder of the city's influence.

Smith shudders at the memory.

Eventually, Ross returns, clad in pyjamas, two mugs in one hand, fresh clothes for Smith in the other. Ross begins peeling off the sopping clothing, distaste curling his lips, and Smith helps best he can. But there's no drive there. Is he broken from this? Is this permanent?

He kind of hopes so: hopes it'll eventually annoy Ross so much, this ennui, that he drives him away. Ross will find someone else who deserves him and they can be happy.

And Smith can sit here, stay here, listless, with no money, no chance at employment, and no person his soul can reside with. In a perverse way, he might then be happy. Because he will have denied himself everything.

Ross must have been talking to him, but he didn't realise. Blanked him out accidentally. A hot mug is placed in his hands - only a fraction of the heat of Trott and it still burns him. Ross curls close to him on the sofa, hugging him, and Smith feels sobs bubble in his chest, catch in his throat. He works his jaw, but nothing comes out. He feels rain-softened hair brush against his neck and shoulder, breaths soft against the skin there.

Soon, Ross is snoring softly. But Smith can't sleep. He knows the other place will come to him in his dreams. He doesn't want to remember it, but he'll have no choice. Watery blue light and nothing for miles. A road of congealing blood and nobody else, except the splinter of personality which reared its head and took him over for millennia. And he'll have to relive it all. Of that, he's sure.

But his eyes are burning, exhaustion burgeoning, and he knows his will can't hold out forever. He knows he's weak. When he eventually drifts, he can't fight it.


	2. come stands reeling to the shore, oh when the brave are coming out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the chapter titles make no sense, don't worry, they make no sense to me, either. Nor to to the actual writer of the lyrics, who himself finds them utterly bizarre looking back on them:
> 
> "Whenever I listen to 'To The Shore' I am completely nonplussed as to what it is really about." -Simon le Bon
> 
> (Nonplussed in the British English sense, by the way.) Amazing. Anyway, this fic seems to be delving into some good old hurt/comfort, and to be honest, that's really what poor Smith needs. Enjoy.

Smith reaches out to Ross, hand shaking. He's not cold. Not anything. There are blurs around them, trailing forms of people, with multiple variations of all their possible actions superimposed over the top of themselves. All different, all displayed for Smith to see. The people around them move sluggish, drawn-out, like they're moving through molasses, and yet he and Ross are moving normally.

He feels pride bursting at his chest, clawing at the vulnerable flesh, fighting to escape and consume his friend. And he wants it to; wants Ross to be his, to laud his every decision, treat him like a god. So he stands, easily, the demon having plunged pitch-slow into the snarling water spanning endless before him before it fades to infinite blue, merging with the empty horizon, sprays and waves and droplets from where his body enters the water completing their motions in an infinite second. 

The demise of fire is a relief to him. It leaves Ross all to himself. The man reaches with both hands for Smith, desperate, even with fear etched plainly in his features. He hates Smith but can't resist his draw. Smith's channeling fae ability, raising himself wilfully into their echelons. Their pose could belong on the vaulted roof of the Sistine chapel; a dark haired man reaching for God's hand. He loves it, utterly, truly. Never liked anything better.

And then Smith's the one falling in a twist of perspective. Achingly, inexorably. His wings are useless, his tail leaden, and he burns. He looks right, sees the dreaded tapestry of himself luring Ross away. It's not him there, smiling with too many teeth - it's someone else, that other part of him; the one which took him over so completely for so many years in that other place. It's the thing the city saw in him, the scrabbling insecurities, vices.

He feels a heavy, warm, consciousness begin to envelop him. It's Trott, he can feel the gentleness, the misleading softness, curling around him carefully, blocking his awareness, making it easier to let go, lure him away. So he does. He falls further, uncaring, numb, until he's submerged under black waves.

\---

Smith starts awake with a small grunt, his heart like that of a small animal, beating hurriedly, his eyes blinking against the bright light streaking through the blinds of the front room. He can't remember his dream properly; just fragments of blue, flickers of flame, streaks of illumination, a feeling of displacement.

How did they get home? He remembers walking home hand-in-hand with Ross, melancholy, but eyes turned to the future, hoping, optimistic, for the brunet to find his way back to them. 

He also remembers being practically carried back by Ross, exhausted. The two of them being seemingly drunk, they were so tired, terror and anguish the only thing fuelling them both.

Which is real?

It has to be the second one. It's the one he remembers fully, sharply. And the chasm in his chest where he longs for the brunet is telling. If he doesn't believe Trott can find his way back, that he's dead, then he will have felt the same asleep, he's sure of it.

Asleep. Dreaming. He doesn't want to be reminded of those unsettling snippets. Smith scrunches his eyes closed, shaking his head minutely to each side, before opening them wide again. He's still fucking miserable. 

The auburn haired man looks to his left, to Ross, sprawled over him. He feels the man's breaths against his neck, his soul warming as he observes the other man, his features, the unique shapes and shades which compose him. He's so glad he still has Ross - he knows it's selfish, tries pushing it down. But Ross is steadying, a grounding influence. 

Smith doesn't want him to leave.

But he has to. And he will, oh, he will.

And then he looks forwards, looks to the wall opposite where he's sat, properly looks. The clock's there. Smith feels his stomach lurch. Shit. His chest tightens, feels sweat cool beneath his arms when he lifts them slightly. He expects colour and sound and life to fall away again, for him to be left on his own with blue and darkness and he can't. Can't deal with it.

He feels sick - his abdomen clenches and he brings a wrist to his mouth as he attempts to press down the urge to retch. Shit. He veers to a standing, feet unsteady, clumsy, as he bolts from the sofa to the bathroom. He has to go past Ross' room, and more unwelcome memories stream back; forcing himself on Ross, intending to with Trott. He feels worse, if that's possible, the increased ill feeling caused by himself. Ross won't fucking want to be with him after that. Smith didn't listen to him. What a bastard he is!

He crouches at the toilet, lifts the seat. Waits, head hanging forward, ready. He takes long, slow breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. Measured. Counts it out, tries to lower his heartbeat. The bonus is his head keeps track of the numbers, meaning less of it is dedicated to digging claws in himself and pulling, right where his soft underbelly is. Metaphorically speaking.

After a while - it could be mere minutes, could be twenty, even thirty - it's subsided. He coughs, knowing he won't retch now, and wearily rises to a stand, washes his hands in the sink and moves to leave the bathroom. Ross. Ross has left tea for him. It's sat a few metres down the hallway from the bathroom, sat obstinately in the centre of the walkway. He must have been so out of it in his reverie if he didn't notice. Or maybe Ross was being careful, quiet. He's like Trott in that regard. His lips press into a melancholy smile at that. 

Ross probably isn't sure how Smith's feeling, what he's going to act like - and damn if he knows himself, to be honest - but he's doing little things to try to help him. He feels warmth in his chest. Love. Adoration. Something soppy and real and scary. Something he's felt for years with Trott, something that's been brief but almost as strong with Ross. He doesn't know if he's good enough to deserve it. Wants it so dearly. Is it greedy to want two people this much, in this way? Smith isn't sure.

He kneels in front of the mug, wincing as his knees click, and after getting as comfortable as he can, he cradles the mug between his palms, the heat seeping comfortably into them. Now he's less internally focussed, he can hear the low, continuous hum of traffic, the clatter of Ross working his magic in the kitchen. Are his sense back to normal again? The heightened awareness seemed sporadic at best, as though it hadn't settled in him before. He's certain his hearing's better now, not that it wasn't before. His vision, again, is slightly improved. Smell? Better again - french toast. Yes. Taste? Well, he'll check with the tea, in a minute. Touch? Smith frowns, reaching out to skim his fingertips over the course carpet. He can feel the texture better now. Maybe it's because he's concentrating on the specific sense. He has no idea, really.

He returns his focus to the tea. Yep, a full-house. Better senses, though not by much. He enjoys the drink anyway, finds a soothing familiarity in its heat down his throat, the smoothness of the blend. Smith closes his eyes while steam drifts up hotly into his face, just drawing some simple pleasure from the feeling. It's a welcome respite.


	3. the dry fight and the dusty shout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heey guys... I totally didn't decide to start adding to an old draft and then stall immediately, delaying this chapter by a week in a fruitless effort to add stuff to another story or anything...
> 
> So sorry about that. I really do try to keep a schedule with this stuff, but I do suffer from flights of fancy occasionally. This kind of gap will probably happen again. More than once. 
> 
> Also, it begins and ends with tea. Seriously, brain. What is your obsession? I need to tag this fic with 'tea'.
> 
> But anyway, here we see Smith trying to get his shit together. This will last, I can feel it...

The tea brings Smith back to himself. After days of feeling wary, on the edge, it's understandable that he wouldn't quite be himself. It's nice to just sit down, not exactly relaxing, but doing something of the sort. He feels the pull of his muscles in his thighs where he kneels, the stretch of tendons around his knees and the tops of his feet. The physical sensations ground him, bring him a slight respite from his mind. The tea sits warm in his stomach, and he realises he's hungry. He's surfacing back into proper awareness, actually registering things in the moment, not just having them slip by.

It's nice. Even feeling wretched because of the last few days, it's reassuring to have this, to at least know not everything is terrible, despite not quite feeling that way. Smith finishes his drink, lets it settle in his stomach, comforting and warm. He thinks he might be moving to preferring tea over coffee again. His preference between the two has always ebbed and flowed.

After savouring the last of his drink, Smith pulls himself to a standing, limbs moving slow, but steadily. He follows the scent of food, traversing the stairs with care, feeling the pleasurable discomfort of well-used muscles. They ache like he's been running or cycling a lot.

He trails his right hand down the banister, feeling the smoothness of the grain. In his left he's got his first two fingers hooked through the handle, the hold loose but unfailing. He walks through the kitchen door with a god-honest smile on his face, the delayed relief he feels for being here - home! - rearing fast and wild. It's seeing Ross stood by the hob as he nudges egg around the pan, the sizzling from it, the clacking of the wooden spoon dull against the coated metal, the low whirr of the extractor fan, all projecting a sense of normality which his consciousness revels over. 

Outside is crisp, sunlight watery but bright, and the room is lifted, seeming to be made more spacious. It smells fabulous; buttered toast and scrambled egg with a dash of salt and pepper, the zingy note of tomatoes adding a further facet to the dish. Trust Ross. Oh fuck, Ross. His smile has faded to a small, smitten one. Smith loves the other man so much. Oh, he does. Seeing him shuffling about in this room, slippers faded and in disrepair, not bothering with an apron, seems almost nostalgic for his tired, ages-old mind.

He huffs a little laugh of delight through his nose, and moves with padding feet to set his mug down beside the sink. He knows Ross is aware he's there. When he turns around, Ross is casting a vaguely questioning look to him, question in his mind evident without being spoken.

"I'm fine." It makes Smith's heart lurch knowing Ross cares enough to ask after him. But maybe it was just him being polite? "Just... unwelcome memories, I guess?" Smith trails off, gesturing vaguely at his temple in an open-handed movement. His wrist twinges, but Smith bites his lip, suppresses the urge to look down at it.

Ross nods solemnly, once, in acknowledgement. He knows Smith. Knows Smith won't tell him anything more than he wants to. He won't push. Smith's grateful for that. Trott would... Trott would ask him a few times, or just try to annoy him until he'd fire back with an angry reply. Ross just waits. He knows he'll get what he wants to know, eventually. 

Smith's stubborn, but Ross is patient.

Ross has already shifted his attention back to the contents of his pan, folding the egg and breaking it up, some edges browning, keeping the mass well-away from the cherry tomatoes, which are occasionally jostled. Their skins have split, wrinkled, soft flesh beneath showing through. This close, the citrus smell is so much sweeter.

Smith risks a glance down at his wrist, where his hand has unconsciously curled into a tight fist. The skin still has three short, silvered lines, all nigh on parallel, each a slightly different length but no greater than an inch. They're not raised above the skin, still a part of him, and it unsettles Smith. If they start showing signs of growth again, freezing his veins from within, he doesn't know what he'll do. Doesn't even know why they're still here. If the rest of the silver was burned out of him, then what makes these special?

Smith flexes his fingers a few times, as though he were tapping his desk impatiently, and they move with his skin. Smith presses his lips thin in distaste, distrust, but gives up trying to catalogue what might happen. Honestly, he has very little idea.

"Hey, Smith?"

"Yeah. Mate?" He has to wince at his rushed reply.

"Fetch some plates?"

"Sure."

He lifts them from the cupboard, accidentally reaching for three, muscle memory deciding to twist the knife in the wound. Shit. Smith blinks a few times, gritting his teeth. But he sets them down carefully beside Ross, to let the man lift slices of toast onto each plate, crusts somewhat blackened but mostly a gold, with the slight glisten of melted butter, crisp. As Ross deposits lumps of the egg onto the toast, Smith grabs glasses, careful not to repeat his earlier mistake, and a carton of orange juice.

He brings these to their small table, hovering at the place he normally takes. He's not sure if... Not sure if he should sit there now. Ross carries the two plates with care, setting them down in their normal spots, though, and Smith - through some strange sense of obligation - eases himself hesitantly to half perch on the chair. His chair. Right?

Ross hands him a knife and fork. The early, crystal light from outside catches the flat of the knife, and for a second, maybe two, all he can do is stare, flicking his eyes between the implement and his own skin. 

And of course, Ross notices.

"Fuck... Smith? Is it still-?"

"Yep." No point in hiding it. It would be stupid to try to say it's not - after all, it's currently reflecting the sun in his face. Doesn't mean he has to be happy doing so.

Ross holds out his hand, and Smith almost squirms. He still proffers his wrist to Ross, and his stomach bunches as the other man's hands seem to almost cradle it, leaning in close, thumb skimming absently over the smooth surface. As though, like Smith himself, Ross expected the silver to be alien, apart from him, not of him. He feels sick, now knowing Ross is aware it's as much Smith as his obnoxious height.

Ross looks up to him from beneath his lashes, seeming oblivious to Smith's discomfort. After what he did yesterday morning (yesterday? Fuck, it feels so long ago!) Smith doesn't know how Ross feels about him. Smith smiles weakly at him in response. 

Ross leans back in his chair reluctantly, letting Smith pull back his arm. Smith tries to make it not look like he snatches it away, instead moving to begin eating, not wanting to be left with cold buttery toast. Not ideal. It's delicious though - always is when Ross cooks - but this is different. He guesses it's because he's focussing on the taste, and his first bite is of toast and egg and tomato. 

He moans. It's so good. The tomato bursts between his teeth, sweetness verging on tart, the egg soft and salty with a kick of pepper, and the toast is a juxtaposition with its crispness. He knows Ross is eyeing him, probably because that moan did sound a little inappropriate, but honestly, Smith doesn't care.

He's finished it well before Ross, and he uses the opportunity to flick the kettle back on for a drink. He takes the couple of minutes this affords him to look out through the window above the sink, to see the silhouettes of birds far above dip and soar with inherent grace. The sun has crested the thicket behind their house at this point, and the light is slightly warmer, customary fine mist having burnt away early.

The sky is a white blue, like it's bleached. Smith remembers football and laughter and mud streaked over his kit. Good times. He's not quite sure how he'll be doing from now-on. What he'll be doing. But he's feeling oddly ponderous on his full stomach. He doesn't like how open-ended his future is feeling.

The kettle begins its bubbling roar, knocking Smith's thoughts from their distant orbit and back to a safer position. Tea. Coffee for Ross. Do the thing. Don't start thinking now. It's of the utmost importance he stays present. Judging from his behaviour the last few days, it's easy for him to get lost. Self-doubt doesn't help. Neither does self-hatred.

Just make the fucking drinks. 

Smith snorts at his internal monologue, deciding to fire back with a suitably witty retort. 

Will do. Twat.


	4. see you crawling on the floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have thought I'd forgotten about this. Not at all. I love this series too much to bear leaving it behind, but it's something I get intermittant bursts of inspiration for. I've been meaning to add to it for weeks: indeed, more than two months have passed since the last update. 
> 
> Fear not, I haven't left it. Now, I wrote this entire chapter just this evening (that happens a tad too often, I'm not one for forward planning and deadlines with myself, etc) but I know that I would have written nothig today, if it hadn't been for being mentioned in an utterly lovely and touching post on tumblr. You know who you are.
> 
> So, without further ado, enjoy more fucking angst. Can you believe it?

Smith can hear the hum of dialogue from the television, its pitch rising and falling in intermittent waves, so he can almost make out what's being said. The words hover just on the edge of being comprehensible. From the intonation, at least, Smith can tell it's a reality show, or at least one of those programmes which masquerades as such. Reality? He scoffs. 

He tightens his left hand around the fretboard of his guitar, adjusts his seat and posture, and the wide, deep body digs into his sternum where he slouches above it, neck craned so he can just look at the strings. At this angle, the light catches the scratches and signs of wear which have assailed the lacquered, rich wood, over the years. He shifts his hand again, hears the slight sing of the strings in complaint at being jostled. His right hand taps a light but restless beat against the soundbox. 

No melodies jump to mind, not really. Sure, there are simple chord progressions, or any amount of dissonant sequences he could just throw into line, but that's not what he wants for today. He just wants to make something, but feels a stabbing dearth of creativity, right in his chest. It's hollow, a lack of drive to do anything musical. He picked up the guitar with the best intentions, but he's going to leave it back, propped against the wall like an unwanted canvas, without anything to show for it. 

Music is his art, and the sounds are behaving like watercolour paint minus the water. He guesses this is what writer's block feels like; grand ideas cluttering his mind, and nothing forthcoming. The sunlight is a baleful, bright beam through the window. He feels bared to it, like it's a searchlight, and someone's scrutinising his failures, his act. There will be no standing ovation for him, no riotous applause and shouts of, "Encore!''

Smith glowers at the blank blue skies, his brows low, and heart lower. 

His mind shifts to Ross with a soft ache (so close, he was so close to having him as his own, so close to being happy and he fucked it all up), knowing exactly what the man must be doing. Sat on the sofa, one leg curled beneath him, hoodie's cuffs crossed over the threshold of his wrists to cloak his palms. He'll be watching the television with abject fascination covered by total indifference, mobile close to hand and laptop resting nearby with a comforting whirr. 

Smith walks down the stairs, feeling a strange guilt bubbling. It's not even about Trott - although that's just barely being held at bay, looming and dark: casting shadow like a snowy overhang and threatening to fall with catastrophic force - more a secondary, sharp edge to it all. He's being distant and skittering away from Ross like a wounded dog. Any time Ross offer affection - willingly - and Smith doesn't reciprocate, just pulls away. Sure, it's for the sake of Ross, in the long run. He can't force himself on Ross one day and expect it all to be fine the next, but seriously, he's practically scalding Ross so he no longer tries to reach out to him.

And that might be what Smith wants (no, he doesn't, but he does deserve it), but he hasn't once taken into consideration the dark haired man. Fuck. 

He hovers at the door, and how many times has he done this. Too many. He's supposed to be the confident one, the dashing rule-breaker. How was his spirit broken so efficiently in the space of a single day.

Ross is slumped on the sofa, squarely in the middle, doing exactly what Smith expected. It's nice to see that at least one thing has remained the same. He's adorable, like that. Lips parted slightly, the only indication of the full extent of his surprise at whatever shambolic, only-on-television, mess is unfolding currently. There are raised voices, shouting, tears. It all blurs into an only partially annoying haze at the back of his mind. The light seems soft in this room, Ross' presence muting its potency. Perhaps it's magic. Quite literally. He's a light mage, or at least, that's how Smith sees it. There's a romanticism to the idea that Smith quite likes. It's probably telling of his character, but Smith doesn't care.

Ross notices him stepping into the room proper, sharp grey eyes widening in happy surprise, lips pulling back in a smile. Smith's heart skips and he smiles back. He's fucking smitten, and he only half-hopes it doesn't show. Selfish. He's a selfish man. 

For having felt the weight of the world in guilt on his shoulders just a moment earlier, Smith's taken aback by the levity of the situation. He lets his smile drop, all the while letting the tide of worry begin its haunting creep back. Smith gestures loosely at the wall behind him, beyond which lies the kitchen. Shopping. It's what they need. A few days have gone since their last excursion to the shops, and he can tell from what Ross cooked earlier that supplies are drawing thin.

"We need to get some stuff in. Fancy coming?" He doesn't bother trying to inject a sense of salaciousness into the words as he might've done if it were a recording session. He wants Ross to come with him in case he sees the lights. Maybe Ross can hold them at bay. And the city? What if it feels the same as before? Like a slick shift of grease and gore over the whole of him, and not just his physical form. He shudders. Never again. He never wants to feel that again.

Ross must see the wince in his eyes, the sharp edge like a skittish wolf. He turns off the television. "Wasn't watching anyway." They both know it's a lie. Ross likes the weirdest things.

He waits for the other man to pass him before he himself moves into the hallway, and Ross has to brush past him to pass through the doorway. He can feel the heat of him, the realness of him. It gives him something to cling to. Ross pulls on a pair of high-tops, Smith toeing on as best he can his boots, tutting when the tongue gets caught and he has to crouch to set it straight. He ties them hastily, grabs his leather jacket and zips it up like it's thick hide armour.

Ross is by the door, hand resting on the handle. He's looking at the handle with a blank stare, like he's thinking of something, or perhaps reliving a memory. Whatever it is, the dark haired man seems to shake it quickly, lips pressed thinly as he looks across at him, attempted smile not echoing in or around his eyes. Ross knows. He's not stupid. He holds the door open to Smith like he's a chauffeur, and all Smith can do is thank him. He shouldn't resent him for that.

His fists are clenched, jaw tight, eyes narrowed against the light, and more. But nothing. Crossing the threshold made him feel nothing, and if anything, that's worse. Empty. Like it never happened. He expected there to be a dulled copy of it, like an artefact of the event, but there's nothing. He feels worse knowing he would've preferred that awful stickiness to the numb lack of it. 

The door's closed, there's the 'shlick' of the key in the lock, and they're walking, shoulder to shoulder. Smith wishes he had the permission to reach out and clasp Ross' hand. He wishes Ross would have the confidence to hold his, and the knowledge that Smith's sorry that Ross doesn't know whether his actions will ever be met with warmth and reciprocation.

And so they walk, tension unbearable and anything but hot. If anything, cold, clammy, baring down and breathing on their necks. Smith thinks of fragments and blue, and betrayal. Light bounces from the frosted-over windows of cars, glints sharp from puddles in the road where enough warmth has been coaxed from the day to melt them. Their knuckles brush, and both pull away, mumbling stuttered apologies and jolting further apart. What a mess. 

Smith looks to Ross and could swear the light straining from every surface around them bends enough to halo him, a large arc of the circle incomplete, fractal. Ross ducks his head at the same time, cheeks dusted pink - from the cold, of course. 

They're there the whole time. The lights. Those lights. They're dancing and twisting and entwining as they should be, instead. If he hadn't touched the lights, then they could have been. If any of them had swallowed their egos, even days earlier, then they could have been. Together. It's a shame, but then, they would've found some way to fuck it all up. Smith smiles, and it's almost fond.


	5. And diamond stars shine glitter bright, gorging your sanhedralites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for so long to pass between updates. Believe me, I am busy. I've got work experience this week, I've got piles of work to do during this time, and after that, also. So the next wait will be at least that long, again. Sorry.
> 
> Smith's pretty maudlin. Poor guy. I know how he feels. You know the whole thing about write what you know? Pining seems to be one of those things. Wahay.

They arrive at the shop, and the doors slide open, rubber skirt at the base of the doors shrieking at the frost dampened floor as the ageing mechanisms haul them apart. Heat rolls over them in oppressive waves from the heater slung above the doorway, and it's with stifling warmth that they're met. It's a far cry from the bitter chill of outside, and from the happy medium they have back home. 

Home. It's still home, in his mind. That's a good sign, surely. The splintered memories of blue and shade must surely be bound to slip away, at some point. Smith finds himself hoping, a brightness within him that he desperately wants to smother, in fear of being wrong. He lets it take root, though, lets it start burning until there's a beacon. He's sure he'll need it.

Ross reaches out for a basket, its metal frame reverberating when it catches the edge of another, and the clinking of the plastic coated handles reminds Smith of being younger; of going shopping with his grandparents while staying over with them with his brother, for a weekend. Fondness blooms in his chest, and he smiles - small, genuine, head tilted down to the floor, suddenly abashed, almost. They're some of his favourite memories. Reading old books, running around in the small, immaculate back garden. Of playing in the park with the burn of the gaudily painted metal as he swung on monkey bars, of sunshine and ice-lollies, of old cathode ray screens and whirring behemoths of desktops.

God. He wishes he could be back then. Just for the innocence and wholesomeness of experience. Smith could be happy, he thinks.

People are milling about the shop, a small supermarket. There's the white noise of people walking and conversing, of trolleys clattering, of freezer doors clicking as their seals are open and smacking as they slam shut. Normality. It's vivid in his newfound ability to experience the world. If he just stood there, shut his eyes, Smith's sure he could start following footsteps, matching it to locations, he could tell individuals apart, and-

"Smith." It's hissed by Ross in his ear, just as the man's hand fixes tightly around his bicep, and the sudden stimuli in his somewhat vulnerable state make him jolt.

"Fuck!" His eyes snap open, and he hears a scoff from a woman pushing a trolley past him, disgust at his crass outburst heavy on her face and the line of her shoulders. Smith realises where he is - stood in the middle of an aisle, blocking people, possibly having been insensate, though he's not sure how long he was stood there. Ross' brows are low, dark, heavy, his grey eyes thunderous in a steely, understated way. He's not angry at Smith - concerned, yes, and there's an element of betrayal there, hurt at the prospect of Smith not telling him about what's going on - more at the general concept of what's happened in the space of the last few days.

Guilty, too. Oh, Smith can see it, the tightness of his posture, the above the bridge of his nose, the thinness of his lips. Smith starts to reach out for him, well, not even that - he considers the action of reaching out for him - but pain slices down his forearm, seemingly bisects the muscle and tendon and bone and thin skin, and Smith knows it's the marks, his brand, whatever the silver actually is. Smith shivers at the thought and flinches at the dull throb of pain in its wake. 

Ross lets him go, eyeing him with reserved frustration at the lack of ability to do anything to sort this. "What was that?" Ross' voice shakes at the last syllable, timorous. How to answer that. How does he fucking answer that?

He leans down, stares deeply at the shorter man. "Look, let's do this when we get back. I don't want to make a scene." He smirks as he lifts his head, not at all feeling the confidence he tries to project, noting curious eyes all around them attempting to observe the proceeding surreptitiously. "Or at least no more of one than we've made already..." He steps away. The meaning clear and apparent. No more will be said on the matter until they return back... home...

Ross appears to gather his wits, shaking his head, just barely, and letting out a soft, disgruntled snort. He hefts the metal basket from where he must have left it before confronting Smith, and walks on without glancing back. He's not surprised. He's acting as cold as the weather outside, and though it might be a protection mechanism for him, it's once again showing how little thought he gives for the other man. If he loved him, truly, wouldn't he be less selfish, tell him what he wants - nay, deserves - to know? The thought hits Smith like a barrage of water, cold and dripping down his neck to the small of his back, chilling him, making the hairs stand on end, eliciting shivers, and making him feels miserable, and small. He scuffs his shoes on the pale flooring as he follows, hanging back a few metres, feeling even more maladjusted to the life of an adult and even more like the adolescent he never fully progressed from.

Ross' movements are jerky, the set of his shoulders stiff and held higher with tension. Smith grimaces, cursing under his breath. A woman sends him a knowing look, and he wants to glare, but he can't - she's both wrong and write about their circumstances, because this has absolutely nothing, and yet everything, to do with Ross. She thinks they might be in the midst of a lovers' tiff. And are they? What are they? Sure, Ross wants his answers, but equally, Smith wants his own. The only problem being, the things that Ross wants to know, ludicrous as they might sound to most anyone else, are easier to ask for than what Smith wants to know.

Or maybe they're not. Maybe he's just too much of a coward. He has to blink against the sudden misting of his vision, feels his hackles raise at the unwanted moisture in his eyes. Weak, he looks fucking weak. And he knows crying's not a sign of any less worth, but self-loathing doesn't have a rationale, only an agenda. It's ruthless and hateful and so completely unnecessary. His wrist twitches and Smith curls his right hand into a fist in response. 

Fuck this. With a final blink, the tears are gone. Smith roots in his jacket pocket for a tissue, tries to stealthily wipe around his eyes. Good, now the only sign will be a brightness of emotion in his eyes, perhaps a redness to them, too. He unconsciously bows his head in an attempt to hide his shame. All it does is make him look defeated.

\---

The walk back is only minimally warmer, and it makes him grateful for Ross, who dutifully presses in close, even while standing apart from him. It's as though their spirits, their auras, overlap, share warmth like atoms share electrons. No contact, but it's there, detectable, with a remarkable impact on a larger scale; indeed, it warms him inside. That little flame - the one he mused over in the strange bubble of the supermarket - would be glowing brighter, if it were real. Hope. It's there.

The remainder of their trip, and now the walk back, has served to cool Ross' sense of injustice at their situation. He seems to be drawing from Smith just as much as he is from Ross. They're joking - and sure, it's weak, it's unfamiliar, it's as though they're back to being friends of Trott's drawn together by their orbit around the man in question, and so the laugher is in short bursts, and trails off uncomfortably, but he's momentarily happy, genuinely so. 

It's not completely fucked-up yet.

He almost doesn't want to arrive home. Certainly doesn't like that the sight heralds upcoming uncomfortable conversations... or arguments, depending. They're both stubborn bastards, with a clear sense of their own wants, aims, goals. From their time together, they also know full-well when something still remains to be said. Obviously, then, they'll know if there's lies said. 

But Ross turns to him, smiles slight, wobbly, heart-wrenchingly honest , and it all falls away. What does any of that matter. He tries to return the expression, imagines that his face locks in a rictus impression of the fact, but the joy at that look swells painfully within his chest. They reach the doorway, and he fumbles for his keys, head down, face hurting from his achy smile. All he can hear is blood pounding in his ears. He thinks he sobs.


	6. words are falling to the floor glands stand pouring fruit tree now they glisten on the waterline

Smith hurries through the door, progress slowing as he senses the door being shut by Ross. He pauses, turns on his heels, watches the other man lock up with his keys. He hunches a little to do it, always has. Smith smiles, just a little, throat thick with emotion.

Ross straightens, leaning down to start pulling his shoes off, then hesitates, jerking his head up to meet Smith's gaze, looking a little like a deer caught in headlights, panicky and wide-eyed. Smith can't glance away. Ross' face is soft, open, eyes bright with feeling. Smith does sob then, surprised at himself, wheeling slightly to sink back onto the carpeted stairs, smiling and feeling like his chest might burst. The last day or two has been leading to this - this outpouring of genuine feeling. 

Ross clatters to his feet, stumbling on a stray shoe, hurrying to kneel before Smith, so their heads are level. He embraces him, warm in his coat, just unzipped, so Smith feels ensconced. Ross smooths his hand up and down his back in slow, steady sweeps, other hand coming up to cradle the back of Smith's skull. He rocks them, side to side, a soothing motion. His cheek's cool against Smith's. He can feel the damp of his tears seeping between them, sticky, uncomfortable, but neither of them move to pull back.

This is what they've needed, for so long: even before the shit-show of the last while, they needed tactile friendship, easy demonstrations of love. Ross' breaths are warm over his neck, the skin sensitive. He feels so much, too much, in the space beneath his sternum.

And his heart stops, just for a second, as Ross moves, ghosts his lips over the very same spot. And in the ensuing silence, all that can be hears is their breaths, ever so slightly harsher from their walk, and the cold, and their shock. Smith stays still as Ross pulls back, suddenly bashful. He glances to the floor, and around Smith: anywhere that isn't him. The smile on Smith's face almost hurts, beaming wide as he is.

"Ross." It's a breathy whisper, tinged with a wheeling mesh of emotions. Happiness, conflict, fear.

Ross looks up at him, then, eyes so vulnerable. They're grey, intense in the winter light. Smith can see the striae; they're so close it makes his head spin.

"Ross." He laughs then, breathless and small, giddy. He skims a shaky hand up to Ross' cheek, stomach swirling as Ross leans into it, an edge of deliberateness, staring straight at Smith, so he gets the message. Ross wants him, loves him as much as Smith does. And now it's not purely selfish to want Ross. Surely it's crueller to keep him away.

So he leans in, inexorably, not breaking their gazes. Smith's trembling in his guy, and his pulse is up. They pause, an inch apart, and their exhales are matched in rhythm. They kiss, just he barest brush. It's chaste, and soft. "I love you."

\---

Smith's about to walk into his room to sleep, when he hears footsteps behind him. Characteristically Ross: soft-footed and careful.

Smith turns to face him, feeling a dart of irrational fear; his mind conjures the image of Ross, wary and unsettled, words of rejection spilling from his lips, that what happened was a mistake, one that shouldn't be repeated. But Ross is bashful, and smiling, scratching at the back of his head, looking self-conscious.

"Mate, do you mind if I join you?" It's hesitant, with an edge of apology, which makes Smith want to leap forward and hold him, quash those feelings on his behalf, forever.

Instead, he pushes the door behind him open wider, gesturing with a joking flourish at his room. Ross ducks and smiles gently, proceeding into the room with only a slight falter.

Smith follows him in, heading over to his side of the double, where he habitually lies. It's beside his bedside table, a small lamp lying on top. He draws back the quilt, Ross mirroring his action on the opposite side, and slides onto the white sheet almost gingerly, a little nervous. He knows the furthest they might go is hugging, maybe even kissing in the morning, but there's something about letting someone discover the most private of things about you.

They've already slept beside each other, once. Smith's reminded of it with a small shudder, and a flash of shame. He knows he was desperate - for an answer, for someone to take the brunt of his terror, for some human contact - but he took it too far. And here he is, again, brain in overdrive.

Ross clambers in, adjusting the quilt. They stay apart, but it's warmer. He almost forgets to warn Ross about his dreams.

\---

Ross is a steady presence the next few days, a constant light in his life. He fucking needs it, and he gets the feeling Ross needs him, too.

Every morning, Smith wakes, breathing hard like he's run a marathon. Tatters of imagery haunt him, elusive. Sometimes, he'll get the feeling of familiarity that accompanies the flicker of remembrance, only for it to slip from him. The more he tries, the further away recall gets, and the more frustrated he feels.

Ross is calm, and patient. He holds Smith close, whenever it gets too much. They're both in grieving, he thinks, although it still hasn't settled with him. Trott's so vibrant, the three of them so necessary, that when the different quiet of the house gets too much, Smith feels like crying.

Sometimes, they kiss. It's a comfort more than anything, two people trying to make sense of their place in the world, feeling bereft of someone as vital to them as a limb.

So they slog through the oddly empty days, spending time tending to things, returning their lives as close to the status quo as they can manage.

It's late, one evening, a week after the rift was opened up in Smith's life, after his dearest friend was torn from him, that there's a knock at the door. Ross is curled up in Smith's side, a blessed warmth. He raises his head from Smith's shoulder in confusion, tilting his head as he listens, as though that can help him discern the nature of their caller in the late hour.

Ross sighs, pushes from the sofa lethargically, yawning and stretching as he moves towards the doorway. Smith watches him, settling back in the chair and moving his attention away from that of the television. It's volume was already low, so Smith strains his hearing in an attempt to hear.

He half expects Ross to shuffle back into the room, cursing some idiots after finding nobody at the door. But there's a sudden lurch of discussion, familiar cadences and eager syllables. Smith's interest is beyond piqued - this is the most animated Ross has been in the last long while, and he's not even there to see it - and he heads out of the room to follow him himself.

He's floored at what he sees. Kim. She's standing in the doorway, door still open and cold air sweeping in. He darts forward as his legs almost go out from under him, steps urgent and quick. Ross is still conversing, ebullient, radiant when he turns to smile at Smith, and his heart beats a march under his skin. 

Kim beams at him, dazzling as always. She's dressed more casual than usual, but that doesn't say much. She's clad in a purple leather jacket, and her lipstick is a subversion, a rich, taupe matte. Street-lights behind Kim lend her an artificial halo, a fine mist surrounding her: her aura, blatant, and strong, manifest.

He's out of breath already, and his eyes must be so wide. He's desperate to know, to have any sense of optimism, whilst half of him is recoiling at the thought his hope's will just be further dashed. Although the two of them are smiling so wide, and they wouldn't do that if there weren't good news.

He draws level with Ross, pressing against him, as though for support. It's mutual, Ross a warm line against his arm. Kim reaches for their hands, and her eyes are sparkling, bright, though when she notices the triplet silvered lines on Smith's wrist, her face flickers slightly, though she says nothing. Then she smiles, slightly tearful, drops their hands, and pulls them down in turn to kiss both of them on the cheek, lightly, like a butterfly's wings.

"I wanted to do something worthwhile with my life." She brings the back of her hand up to dash tears from her cheeks, a laugh bubbling up between wet hitches of her lungs. "And I have."

Smith lurches to hug her, hug her tight and sure. The door clicks behind them, draught being cut off, and then Ross joins them, so the three of them are warmed by proximity. He speaks into her shoulder, words muffled. "What do you know, exactly?"

His own vision is glittering, and as he blinks, fresh tears fall. So much hope. He's never felt this exposed, this vulnerable, but if he's allowed one miracle in his life, he prays it's this one. That Trott can come back to them. He wishes so utterly.

"I'm not sure exactly, but soon, very soon!" And with that she begins to push them towards the stairs, tutting when she hears the television, darting away to switch it off, before resuming urging them up the stairs. "Sleep, and he'll be here by morning, I swear to you."

There's a certain gravity to that, the word almost seeming to ring, to resonate in the air. He gasps, feeling it in his wrist, the power of the word. She's gone, in a prismatic scatter of droplets. He grabs Ross's wrist tight, feeling awe and apprehension all at once. Sure, Kim can swear it, and honestly, but there's no accounting for what might actually happen. It's a cyclical argument in his head, non-sensical but true nonetheless.

Both Ross and Smith rush through their ablutions, hasting to be able to sleep, though with the adrenaline Smith's feeling in his veins, he's not sure how successful the venture will be. He's nervous, and awkward, feeling jumpy and on-edge. Not at all conducive towards sleep. Ross eyes him, already curled under the sheet, eyes reflecting back every flitting feeling that Smith has. He drifts towards him, settles under the quilt, facing him, scooting close.

He reaches for Ross's clasped hands, drawing them between his own, before he leans to skate his lips against Ross' forehead, eyes fluttering closed. He settles into his pillow, and, somehow, he sleeps.

\---

The first thing Smith's aware of is that he didn't dream. Even though he's forgotten quite what occurred after each, though he's sure it was the same dream, he knows he would be gasping, breaths laboured, heart beating high against his skin. There's none of that. He feels the best-rested he has in a long time.

And second, he's warm. Very warm, overly warm. He cracks his eye open, and the light of the room is tinted red. And he smiles, fucking beams. Reaches his hand out and trails his fingertips over the surface of Trott's wing, draped over him an Ross, watching in amazement as the texture seems to shift and swirl, the fire beneath it so alive, so beautiful.

He rolls his head to peer over his shoulder, so as to leave Ross undisturbed for a minute, to make sure this is real. Trott's there, lay behind him, a sheepish smile on his face, eyes dark, with just the slightest guardedness. He takes in the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the shade of his hair. He's not sure how much he wants to know about what Trott's been through, but he lifts his hand, clumsy after sleep, to gently cup Trott's cheek, feeling the heat of his skin. Fuck, it's him. He's back. 

Smith can't do anything more than grin back, joy heady, and overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, I bet you didn't expect to see an update on this fic. Basic rundown: after the last update, I was getting really sick of the yogscast in general. It was around he time a lot of shit was going down about certain people. I was angry, and worse, I was depressed, as may have been evidenced by my writing and my blog. I'm not sure.
> 
> Long story short, I couldn't stand the thought of writing anything more for the fandom. And so I didn't write for a period of a year. Until I stumbled into another fandom, one in which everything feels I lot calmer. I was way too caught-up in stuff, using this fandom as a crutch, which wasn't healthy. But yeah. Earlier today, it suddenly occured to me that I could actually stand writing, and finish this, finally. Because worse to me was having something that I once loved unfinished.
> 
> I'm under no illusions that this won't be worse than the rest of the fic; I haven't watched any of the Hats' content for over a year, haven't read any fic, know nothing of their current projects. But it's nice to have some closure. Obviously, this isn't how it was originally going to end. There would've been more chapters, more pain, and it would actually have changed to an explicit rating. Ah well.
> 
> I hope, though, that this offers an end, for all those who appreciate endings. I hope it is in some way satisfactory. And I want to thank all those who were so kind to me in the early days of me writing. It means so much to me.
> 
> Well, that's that. I'm not returning. But I haven many good memories of lovely people and incredible writing. Thank you.
> 
> Unbetaed, as always.


End file.
